


Loosening the Strings

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Not really anything to do with The Abominable Bride but I borrowed Molly's alter-ego & the year, Other, Sexual Roleplay, Submission, Tuesdays with Mycroft, Victorian Sherlock AU, cross-dressing, gender fluid, yeah i went there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 04:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10609569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: It is 1895, London is still firmly ruled by Victorian morals, and women are very much a second class. Molly Hooper has been living a lie for years, presenting herself to the world as Doctor Milton Hooper. Only one man knows her secret, and every Tuesday afternoon she and Mycroft Holmes explore their boundaries together.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There is sexual role play here, as well as cross dressing and some very mild submission. This may not be for everyone, and maybe I'm just a weirdo, but I can totally see Victorian Mycroft as a bit of a cross-dressing coquette.

_London_

_1895_

 

          The cord pulled tighter, the steel, silk and cotton cinching more snugly around the slim torso.

          “Is that too tight?”

          “Just a bit.”

          The capable hands released their hold on the laces and made some adjustments to the corset.

          “How about now?”

          “Perfect, I think. Thank you.”

          “My pleasure.”

          Molly Hooper—still dressed as Doctor Milton Hooper—smiled at Mycroft Holmes in the cheval mirror and he smiled back, looking bashful. Under normal circumstances he was a rather aloof, painfully correct and civil man. During their Tuesday afternoons, he was a different person.

          She tied the laces and put her hands on his waist. He was already a slim man, but when he was wearing a corset he gained a different shape, lithe and wasp-waisted. They had experimented with padding at his breast, but for the most part they preferred to leave him natural. Mycroft sometimes wore a sheer chemise with his corset, sometimes not. Today he had padded and arranged his flesh so he almost had a slight swell of cleavage. He was wearing a thin muslin chemise in palest apricot, with nothing underneath, and she could see the slight rounding of the globes of his buttocks, the darker shadow of the crevice between them. Molly felt her breath shorten.

          “You look beautiful.” Molly held his eyes in the mirror, reached up, began removing pins and carefully removed her wig. Her own hair was shoulder length, and she wore it tightly bound under a wig cap. Once released she sighed and rubbed her fingers against her tight scalp.

          Mycroft turned and ran his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp and she leaned into his touch, almost purring.

          “Is that better?”

          “Mm, thank you.” Molly reached for her luxurious mustaches, but Mycroft stopped her, his fingers lightly touching her wrist. “Leave them on. Please?” Their eyes met and her hands trembled in excitement. She nodded jerkily, and he smiled, his blue grey eyes alight with happiness and anticipation.

          “How do you want me?”

          “Trousers, waistcoat and coat off, please.” Mycroft held out a hand to steady her as she unlaced and eased off her shoes. He helped her out of her coat, and held it while she unbuttoned and then removed her waistcoat. Next came her braces and trousers, and then she stood in her stocking feet, wearing underwear, a somewhat rumpled white shirt with a celluloid collar, her favorite red tie and underneath it all her own corset and padding, which helped her look more like a man. Although of course most people saw what they expected to see.

          “Turn around for me,” Molly instructed, and he rotated slowly, the muscles of his thighs flexing under the thin chemise as he turned. When he faced her Molly could see the most unladylike bulge of his erect penis draped in dainty fabric. She smoothed her hands over the corset, holding his eyes, reading his own mounting excitement; her palms skimmed over his narrow hips and then in towards his groin, flattening the fabric to him. Molly licked her lips and watched his cock jump in response. “Oh sweetheart, what an eager boy you are. Have you touched yourself today?”

          He shook his head, swallowed a bit dryly, “No, I waited for you. It’s been very, very difficult,” Mycroft admitted, blushing a bit. “I’m going mad. All I can think about is you. I was useless this morning, just useless.”

          “I’ll put you to work,” Molly promised, pulling the fabric taut over his groin and then sliding it from side to side. His color mounted and his eyes drifted closed. Molly leaned in and kissed his tiny cleavage, enjoying the slick feel of his hairless skin. “Mmm, nice,” she breathed, the knuckles of her left hand just barely brushing against his hard flesh. She firmly took his buttock in her right hand, kneading the muscle, appreciating the sensation of his lightly furred skin in contrast to the hairlessness of his chest.

          “I shaved for you,” Mycroft whimpered a bit, and tried to rock his hips into her hand. “Do you like it?”

          “It’s very nice, you feel lovely.” Molly wanted to meet him half way, press harder, grasp more firmly, give them both the friction they desired. But that wasn’t the game. Not today at least. Once or twice they came together in a tumult, both of them still mostly dressed in their sober suits, up against the wall or over the end of the bed. Today though, she wanted to draw out the pleasure. It had to last. She needed it to last. It was getting harder and harder to go the week without seeing him.

          Today Molly intended to take her time.

          It wasn’t always she that was in charge. Sometimes Mycroft was the coquette and he seduced her and sent her head swimming with his wiles. Sometimes they were equals, clashing like rapiers as they struggled to dominate. Sometimes they were soft and shy and gentle with one another, folding into bliss like hothouse flowers slowly wilting on the bosom of a tender debutante at her first dance.

          Today Mycroft was letting Molly lead—well, he was trying, but he was so eager, the little coquette, that he kept unconsciously trying to urge her on. “Not yet,” she said as he waited for her, tense with anticipation. His breathing was fast, his face desperate, and Molly took pleasure in knowing she had reduced the mighty Mycroft Holmes to such a state.

          “Stop gloating,” he groaned, eyes closed. “Release me, Molly, please.”

          “Come here,” she guided him to sit on the padded bench against the foot of the bed, and he sat gingerly. “Hold onto the bedposts,” Molly instructed, and his hands gripped the polished wood; she knelt between his bare feet and skimmed the material of his chemise up his legs. “Aren’t you pretty in your lovely finery,” she complimented, stretching up to kiss him. Their lips clung eagerly.

          Settling back down between his spread legs, Molly at last uncovered his erection; they both sighed in delight. “I want to see your mustaches as you wrap your lips around my cock,” Mycroft said, eyes on her. “I want to touch your silky hair and see your beautiful eyes look up at me as you take me in your mouth.”

          “You’ll get what you want—eventually.”

          Her life had taken a very strange and sometimes torturous route to get to this point, Molly thought, kneeling slowly between his spread legs. She had sacrificed much to get to where she was in her professional life—even giving up her female identity and living a lie. No one, aside from a few very close friends, were even aware that she was actually a woman, and not the stern and bad-tempered Milton Hooper.

          There had been times when she thought she might crack from the strain, allowed to be a woman only when she was safely in the confines of her rented rooms. But then had come her first meeting with the irksome Sherlock Holmes’ elder brother, who had deduced her gender in mere minutes but amazingly kept his mouth shut. It was months after the fact before she had received an invitation to drinks at his club.

          What followed had been a strange progression from distrust to acceptance to friendship…and now they spent their Tuesdays together, exploring the strange lusts and fetishes that called to them. When they were together they could be themselves—all the selves that they were. Molly could be Milton, or she could be herself; Mycroft could drop the guise of the remote genius and revel in his earthy side. Together they were learning that gender was no as absolute as they had once imagined.

          When he was gasping and bucking his hips, Molly pulled back, smiling at her lover. “Was that as you pictured it?”

          “It was,” he groaned, looking desperate, “But I’m not going to be able to withstand it much longer.”

          “On the bed, on your back,” Molly suggested, and he hurried to comply, lying down and tugging his things into place. She climbed up on the bed and straddled his lap, leaning over to kiss him.

          “Your mustaches tickle,” Mycroft chuckled breathlessly, and she kissed him again, until they were both giggling. Whenever they were together, sometimes Molly would experience such a feeling of lightness that it took her breath away, like stepping from a warm house to the cold, wintry outdoors and feeling the breath suck from your lungs. It should have been an off-putting image, but somehow it suited them and what they had. There was no coldness to their union, just exploration and adventure and joy that warmed you from the inside.

          Molly mounted him and moaned as she slowly slid down, until his length was fully seated inside her. She felt breathless from the overwhelming press of his flesh, full and stretched and aching with wanting. Mycroft’s fingers danced up her bare thighs, gripped her hips and urged her on as she rode him. Sometimes he called out her name, but occasionally his moans were breathless and she caught him murmuring, “Milton…Milton!”

          _Why is that so arousing?_ Molly wondered, increasing her pace. The taboo of their joining, the secret nature of their meetings…it was all spiced by the things they revealed about themselves. For a woman living a dangerous lie, Molly found it exhilarating.

          “Oh Mycroft,” she sighed, rolling her hips and rubbing her hands up and down the silk-covered stiffness of his corset, glorying in the sensation of his feminine garments in contrast to his thrillingly hard male flesh filling her. The duality of his restrained power submitting to her dominance was pushing Molly’s control, and she moved faster, aware that her orgasm was building.

          Mycroft’s face was strained, and his fingers bit into her hips, but he didn’t try to take over, and Molly rewarded him with a series of love bites along his chest and collarbone. He moaned and she brushed her thumbs over his reddened nipples, which were being chafed by the top of the corset passing over them with the force of their passion. His hips bucked sharply and he held onto her, grinding her down on his pelvis as he came. Molly felt his release pumping into her and she let go and followed him, rocking against his body until the shudders had left her.

          Tenderly, Mycroft pulled her to him, rolled to his side and held her close. “You were magnificent as always, my dear Miss Hooper.”

          “How was Milton?” She joked gently, and felt, rather than saw, his smile.

          “You indulge my need to submit to the rule of a man while enjoying the silky wet heat of your body,” Mycroft murmured, kissing her hair and smoothing a hand down her back. “I accept your teasing as I know it was meant tenderly, not with malice.”

          “Never with malice,” Molly assured him intensely, tipping her head back so she could meet his eyes. She put up a hand and brushed her fingers over his jaw, feeling the slight prickle of his beard filling in. It was a sign that the day grew late, and soon they would part. She would be alone once more, in her quiet, empty house. It was the daily maid’s day off and the reason they were able to meet. She wished that he did not have to leave her. Being Milton Hooper was lonely.

          “My dear…” Unaccountably, Mycroft trailed off, and looked a bit shy. “Would you…that is, would you care to join me for dinner? At my home.”

          “Your home?” Molly knew she was echoing him like a witless mynah bird, but he was changing the rules of the game.

          “Yes, my home. I could order dinner laid in my study, and we could dine in privacy.” He flushed slightly, “Your reputation as a lady would remain safe and no one would think anything of my having a gentleman to dine.”

          “A gentleman,” Molly said, feeling letdown. Just once she wished she could interact with Mycroft Holmes outside of her rooms as Molly Hooper.

          “I think it would be too difficult to get you in and out of your rooms dressed as a woman,” he said, “However…if you would pack a valise with some of the female clothes you keep in that locked trunk, you could change in my study.” He smiled suddenly, looking younger and quite happy, “In private we could be simply Molly and Mycroft.”

          Perhaps he needs more than Tuesday afternoons, as well, Molly thought, feeling tears prickle. It would be dangerous to change the nature of their arrangement, to allow more, to wish for something that could not be…but her entire life was dangerous, and she was tired of caution. Tomorrow she could worry about the repercussions.

          “I would be honoured to dine with you, Mycroft,” Molly said, and was rewarded by his smile. Tonight was theirs.

         


End file.
